What If?
by Madame Cyanure
Summary: Every thing that happens in Torchwood has a consequence. But what if we changed how things happened? What if they didn't happen at all? A series of AU drabbles and OneShots. x
1. Death SwapWrong

**So, I was thinking the other day that certain events seem to govern what happens at Torchwood, or at least have significant consequences. Therefore, I give you the What If...? OneShots and Drabbles. Anything that I post here could end up as a big Alternate Universe Fic, given enough support, but for now let's just call it the mini AU Archives. I'll probably do stuff on here when any of my other fics have a little roadblock like I have had with Walkies for the past few days, but I'll get over it soon hopefully. Read and tell me what you think. x**

**SPOILERS: Anyone who is part of Hermits United and hasn't watched either Dead Man Walking or CoE Day 4 won't get this, but I think that is relatively few people really. Oh and by the way, this is sort of a 'FixIt and Break Something Else' fic, just to make things interesting. Also, I couldn't decide on a title so it's got two. x**

**DISCLAIMER: Jack owns Torchwood and I wish I owned Jack. As it is, he's the property of Ianto Jones. :) x**

Death Swap/Wrong

Ianto Jones' eyes were open and all that he could see was red. Death wasn't red. Nor was it textured. No. According to Owen, Death was jet black with just a hint of something in the darkness. Death was definitely not this.

He felt all tingly, like his every synapse was buzzing all at once; whispering little neurone messages that his body was purified. Ianto became acutely aware of someone sobbing beside him. Ah, Gwen. She thought he was dead. Ianto was pretty sure that he wasn't.

He flexed his fingers and stretched out. The red fell away to reveal his incredibly shocked colleague.

'Ianto?' she breathed, 'You're alive?'

He couldn't work out at first why this was so amazing; his brain felt fuzzy and confused, like TV static. But then, as he sat up, it all rushed back at once. Disjointed images flooded into his head.

456. Kids. Floor 13. _I love you._ Jack. _Don't forget me._ Nothing.

He turned to view the body next to him, and then crawled closer for confirmation. Ianto stared down at Jack's stunningly gorgeous face; very still, very peaceful, and extremely pale. Far too pale. In fact, the last time Jack had been this white, it had taken Gwen's necrophilia to bring him back. Ianto bent over and pressed his lips forcefully upon Jack's, allowing his tongue to creep into the mouth for good measure.

He waited for the response, the usual life signs and innuendo-filled quip; he received none. He tried repeatedly; again and again and again to no avail. Panic ensued.

Something was seriously wrong. Jack was dead. Ianto wasn't. This really wasn't good. Things weren't the way they should be.

Slowly, he stood up, his movements sluggish and awkward. What the hell had happened? Jack couldn't be dead; at least, not permanently. But he was.

Something inside Ianto broke, and the shards of internal glass forced him to cry out in pain. Jack had gone away again, this time for good. Ianto felt damaged beyond repair. He bolted for the door, every cell protesting against the action as he did so, though his mind felt comfortably numb. Ears vaguely registered Gwen's shrieking for the body to come back, although they were not Ianto's ears, so he didn't care. He kept on running, scarcely looking back and never ever wanting to stop.

It was never meant to end this way.

**Read, Review, and Big AU? MC. x**


	2. 456: Number of the Apocalypse

**Ok, here's the second What If...? It's short but it ain't sweet and I'm breaking something else again because it's quite fun to do. If someone changes their mind over something important... well I'll leave you to find out what happens. And remember, I want opinions on which story gets a big fic; so Read, Review, and once again AU? :) x**

**SPOILERS: The title's probably a give away but this is a CoE What If..? so it goes without saying that there are spoilers. End of announcement. x**

**DISCLAIMER: Torchwood was Jack's home until that bitch Johnson blew it up. But he still owns it whatever happens. Oh, and in my dream fantasy I've decided that Gwen got squashed and impaled by shrapnel, so lets pretend that she died instead of Ianto, who still owns Jack. I can only claim undying fandom and a passionate distaste for all that is Gwen. I'll shut up now. x**

456: Number of the Apocalypse 

Jack couldn't do it. He had already lost too much. He was already in agony from the loss of Ianto; Jack's fault entirely because he was powerless against death, yet he encouraged it, never admitting anything until it was too late. So many people had already died just from _knowing_ Jack, let alone _loving_ him, and he wouldn't condemn Steven to the same fate.

'Uncle Jack? What do you want me to do?'

Jack was mere inches away from the destiny-changing button, and he felt a surge in the power over life and death. But no. He stepped away from the controls. Not this time.

'_One life or millions.'_

'_An injury to one is an injury to all.'_

Someone else could save the world, this time. Jack was done here. He walked silently away, greatcoat flapping behind him. They tried to stop him – he pulled his gun. Two dead, one wounded. Steven had run screaming to his mother, who nodded in shocked gratitude. No more death by Jack; just isolation and eternity. The door swung to a close behind him and he faded into the night. When the world came crashing down, he wouldn't feel it because he could remove all emotion. He just wouldn't care.

TW

Jack revived in defiance of the burning wasteland that used to resemble Earth, cinder and ash filling his throat; governments had failed at the last second, insistent of humanity's strength, and the destruction prevailed. It had been too late for science, and no rescue had come. The human race now consisted of one solitary prisoner; chained to the ruins of Big Ben like some sick, twisted Prometheus with only his memories for company.

He scanned the horizon for any flicker of life, more out of routine than of hope, and saw nothing. He knew that his captors would return soon eager to maul their toy with creative forms of torture. And when this generation died, the next would take its place and the next, in never-ending torment. Although, you couldn't kill a man who was already dead inside, could you? Steven had perished with the others, in the fury and fire; there was a desperation with in Jack not to care, but he did oh so very much. Jack had got his wish. Isolation and eternity. Left alone with but a name and his thoughts for all of time.

He had thought he had done the right thing by leaving. That there would be less damage. That someone else would take his place. That it would somehow undo all his mistakes. That it could bring back the dead or else make him forget. But the truth was so blindingly and terrifyingly obvious that it hurt.

Jack had been wrong.

**Is it liked? Is it not liked? Whatever, I don't care. Just PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! love y'all. MC. x**


	3. Dirty Slut

**I came up with this on the way home from work - it's been a concept that I've tossed around for a while now but I couldn't work out how to work it until tonight. It's kinda a nice break from the angsty 'What Ifs?' for me so I hope you guys like it. Read and review, you know the usual. x**

**DISCLAIMER: Dear Santa/Easter Bunny/Guy Fawkes/Anyone, please please please can I own Jack and Ianto or a small part of Torchwood this year. I've been very good, but it hasn't happened yet. :) x**

**SPOILERS: Pre-Exit Wounds so people are still alive. This fic was kinda inspired by the Torchwood Novel 'Almost Perfect' but contains no spoilers for that. So, do I really need a spoiler message? Oh well. x**

Dirty Slut

'Oi!' Barked Gwen. 'Stop that! I can see your arse.'

'Nah, stay there. I kinda like it. Wait – let me get my camera.'

'Piss off Owen! Just because you have to perve at and objectify everyone that moves does not mean that we all do!'

'Calm down, PC Cooper.'

'Shut it – for God's sake, straighten up! You're wearing a thong! Don't you even think about sassing me, Harkness, either! You don't get a say in this.'

Ianto stared at the scene before him, rolling his eyes in disbelief as the situation got progressively worse. Leaning over a workstation for all to see, wearing an expression of polite interest, was a tall, slender figure. Having a photographic memory, Ianto had seen it all before, although he still couldn't help but take it all in. Six inch heels, sky-high legs which ended with a too-short pink rah-rah skirt; the subject of Gwen and Owen's argument. Continuing upwards, there was the perfectly formed, pinched-in size six waist, accentuated by a figure hugging top. Breasts that were far too large and voluptuous to be anywhere near natural were barely held in by a push-up brassiere; cleavage giving the Valley of Death a run for its money. Long dark hair cascaded down the shoulders and framed the angelic, yet mischievous, face. She was laughing at the trouble she was causing, and at the social politics that could only exist within Torchwood.

Ianto sighed pensively.

He still hadn't got used to calling his lover 'Jacqueline'.

**Let me know what you think. I really think that I could make a fun AU out of this one! MC. x**


	4. The Cult of Infamy: This Is What We Do

**I wrote this one in an attempt to balance out the spiritual world of yin and yang, so to speak, because I have been far too nice lately. This is purely self indulgent and those of you that have read my other fics will know why. If not, well, you're about to find out. It is set at around Everything Changes but remains completely AU – see if you can spot the historical irony! Please read and review because it keeps the muse alive. And she quite likes living, if I'm honest. :) x**

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned Torchwood, it would be awesome because Ianto would still be alive and this fic would have probably been the climax of Day 4. As it is, that hasn't happened and it is still owned by Jack Harkness. x**

The Cult of Infamy: This is What We Do

The murder wasn't a pleasant sight to witness, but a satisfying one none the less. That sickening crunch as a high velocity bullet pierced the skull was a sensation that Jack was far too familiar with for his liking, but it was a necessary step. The same could be said for the gleaming slash of the tri-bladed knife carving a jagged line from breast to vagina, followed by the trademark cuts embellished upon each cheek upwards from the ghost of a gap-toothed smile. Jack prodded the body with his foot; it was a decent job. A horrific kill, it was extremely messy but far too deserved. He smiled mirthlessly at his associate.

'Not bad, Susie; not bad at all. I think that this is our best work.' Never mind Jack the Ripper, Susie Smiles was the one who had eluded the authorities and made what they did so perfect. Clever and undetected for decades, she was one top class assassin. Their partnership was unbreakable and unique, but it was always Jack who took the limelight and masterminded the plan. It worked better that way.

'Why did this one have to die?' Susie eyed the body with distaste.

'She was a whore. Why else?'

'It's just that you seemed so intent upon this one. I mean more so than usual.'

'She irritated one to many people, that's all. Call it a favour to a friend.'

'Fair enough. Are we going to leave a note on this one, or are you going to show off by writing a ransom note to the Cardiff Gazette again? That was rather pompous, you know.' Susie had the courtesy to look amused, but Jack knew that she thought the myth could go too far. She wasn't one for being remembered, but Jack, on the other hand, was. He had a reputation to feed, and an ego to supplement.

'We'll leave it at the note tonight. I want at least another ten dead before I deal with the media again. That way they'll start to listen.' But Jack really hoped they didn't. The thrill was too great for that, and it wasn't an addiction that Jack was at all willing to give up upon. He just loved the infamy so much. And he knew Susie's passion lay with the kill.

As two cloaked figures swept away silently into the wet, windy Cardiff night, a note fluttered in the breeze, roughly sewn to a corpse's exposed chest. An obituary of sorts, it was written in blood that spattered across the page. When found rotting in the early morning sun, glimmering in the Bay, it would read a sinister warning:

_Here lies Gwen Cooper. Traitor, Adulteress, and Killer of Passion. Others can no longer sleep safe, for we will find them. Fear the time you have left._

**Review to help get the muse off of life support. You guys keep her alive! :) MC. x**


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